


LIGHTS OUT

by hgdoghouse



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Fluff, M/M, fandom cliches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:12:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hgdoghouse/pseuds/hgdoghouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A piece of silliness written in 1983.</p><p>Pros stories were called hatstands.</p><p>The story addresses various complaints - too much sex, too little, too many americanisms, not showering before sex...</p>
            </blockquote>





	LIGHTS OUT

Bodie poked his dozing partner with a remorseless finger. “Listen. Hey, c’mon, Doyle, you can’t go to sleep yet.”

“No? You watch me, sunshine. It’s been a hard day, I’m knackered,” mumbled Doyle. His head of always glossy chestnut curls drooped back onto the pillow like a parched sunflower.

“Yeah, me too,” Bodie admitted in a tone of heavy gloom, frowning a little. There was a short, thoughtful silence before he poked Doyle again. “But you can’t do it, Ray. You can’t disappoint all those people.”

“Huh?” Doyle snuggled comfortably into a warm shoulder, contentedly rubbing his cheek against it before he stiffened as what Bodie had said penetrated his sleep-starved brain. Raising his head, he stared, narrow-eyed, at the often dim light of his life.

“What people?”

“Everyone who’s waiting for you and me to get it together, sunshine.” But Bodie’s voice was weary, matching his libido, which had taken a hell of a battering over the last couple of years. “Bloody hatstands,” he added sourly. “Don’t know whether I’m coming or going any more.”

Doyle’s face was lit by a look of sleepy concentration. “We’re both usually coming - copiously. The laundry’s been giving me hell about the state of our sheets. As for what everyone else expects - screw ’em,” he said in simple negation.

Bodie winced at the Americanism. “Fuck ’em,” he corrected automatically.

Leaning up on one elbow, Doyle lifted the sheet, peering down the length of his partner’s quiescent body. “Well, if you think you’re up to it,” he said, his doubt obvious.

“Couldn’t raise a smile, never mind Louise,” Bodie confessed, his toes starting to twitch a little as Doyle ran a finger across his chest. “It was that black leather gear that finally did it.”

“Well that carpet didn’t do my knees much good, you know,” Doyle reminded him unsympathetically, but a faint gleam of interest had appeared in his eyes. “Bit of all right, that was. Must do it again sometime.”

“Mmm, it wasn’t bad,” Bodie agreed, his eyes hazing over a little.

Doyle pushed back the sheet, staring at the compact, muscled body lying next to him, his finger drifting down, lightly exploring the smooth contours.

“Took a fancy to the mirror one myself,” Bodie announced reflectively, fiddling with the silver chain he wore.

“The mirror? Oh, yeah!” And the faint gleam in Doyle’s eyes became a pronounced glow. “Still haven’t taught you to cook though.”

Bodie raised a complacent eyebrow. “Who’s worried,” he dismissed. “You do the cooking and I’ll do the fuc - ”

“Let’s not descend into open vulgarity,” said Doyle hastily, cutting him short and casting a furtive glance around the bedroom.

“Eh? Why change now?” asked Bodie, confused.

“Well, some of them don’t like the explicit stuff,” Doyle explained with a hunted look on his face.

Bodie gave a lewd chuckle. “Could’ve fooled me. Must be a minority view, that. Anyway, *I* like it, or I did,” he added wistfully. He missed the good old days when he and Doyle had curled innocently together in front of the fire, Ray crying his heart out, because he was the sensitive one, while they listened to the gentle sounds of the Moody Blues and that bloody cat scratching at her litter tray.

“I know what you mean,” Doyle agreed. “I mean, it’s ridiculous, I’m getting old before my time with all this scre - fucking. The hell with what they want. Not that they haven’t had some nice ideas,” he added fairly. “I wouldn’t mind going back to that disco again.”

Sadly Bodie shook his head. “We can’t do that,” he said, mourning the memory of that gorgeous, leather-clad ass/arse and the swelling heat of the groin nestling in his palm.

Doyle’s face fell, a petulant look appearing. “Why not?”

“We’ve gotta be original every time, haven’t we?” Bodie reminded. “Besides, you had to spend too much time in the shower. Ended up all wrinkled,” he added with distaste.

“Nah.” Giving an exasperated sigh, Doyle shook his head. “Can’t you remember anything? That was the *other* one, where you brought me them lilies. After the disco I *forgot* to take a shower.”

“So I should bloody well hope, with me waiting for you. Nice that was. You didn’t need one anyway,” remembered Bodie. “You tasted fantastic.”

“Better than that time I couldn’t wash my hair for eight months,” said Doyle, grimacing. “I never liked to mention this before, but your breath.- jesus.” He winced at the memory.

“All that straw gave me a rash, too,” Bodie told him, scratching reminiscently. “Got sensitive skin, I have. Bloody French prisons.”

“Oh, is that what all them spots were. I didn’t like to ask.”

“I thought you were blind?” Bodie queried with suspicion.

“I was. When I kept my eyes shut.”

Bodie ignored the provocation of that remark. Always an irritating little sod, there were times when Ray excelled himself.

“It might be a bit tiring but we’ve had some good times, haven’t we?” he said reminiscently, mentally ticking off some of his favourites. “The only trouble is - what if they run out of ideas? There can’t be that many new ways left by now.”

“No,” Doyle agreed, his dead-geranium leaf eyes glowing. “Esspecially not after the green wellies.”

“Don’t forget the handcuffs,” Bodie reminded, watching his partner’s signs of stirring life with interest.

“Or them green trousers. I always said you couldn’t beat a nice grope.”

“Or that time we went running. It’s about the only time I’ve enjoyed that. But only you could pick a tree surrounded by nettles,” added Bodie in mild accusation.

“At least it wasn’t a cow pat.”

“True.” Bodie began to laugh. “I hope to christ no one takes a fancy to elephants.”

Doyle pretended not to hear him. “Wouldn’t even mind another dose of flue.”

“Flu,” corrected Bodie automatically. “Haven’t you learnt how to spell yet?”

“Shut up,” said Doyle without heat, always a master of light repartee.

Bodie gave a satisfied smirk. “I reckon it’s time we used our own initiative,” he announced, his tone so masterful and firm that it made Doyle jump, his questing finger getting jammed in Bodie’s navel.

It took them a moment to dislodge it and resettle themselves again. “Just keep your finger to yourself, will you,” Bodie said tartly. “Wait till you know what to do with it.”

Doyle’s lip quivered.

“Oh, come on, Ray, I didn’t mean it like that, but - honest to god, mate, can’t you think of anywhere more exciting to put it?”

Doyle looked puzzled.

There was no question about it, Bodie thought sadly, Ray was definitely slowing down.

Slipping his arm around his partner Bodie leant down, nuzzling the ear lobe that he’d accidentally nibbled too hard that time.

“How about us just switching off the light and doing whatever comes naturally,” he suggested.

Doyle felt his legs turn to jelly at the evil gleam in those midnight blue eyes. “I’m game.”

Bodie flinched. “Sssh, don’t even mention that,” he pleaded. “Nah, this is more what I had in mind...” And leaning down, he began whispering in Doyle’s less-than-shell-like ear.

“Can we do it now?” asked Doyle, all eagerness, his toes, amongst other things, starting to twitch with excitement. It had been *so* long since they’d done that.

A beatific smile appeared on Bodie’s face. “You sure you want this?” he checked, always mindful of his smaller, fragile mate’s well-being.

“I’m sure,” Doyle nodded vigorously. “I’ve been wanting this for weeks. I always said you had an inventive mind.”

Bodie just grinned, then reached out and switched off the bedside lamp.

There was the soft rustle of bed clothing being adjusted, flesh whispering against flesh, the soft murmur of voices dying away. Moments later, they were both fast asleep.

 

THE END

 

 

 

Written March 1983


End file.
